He glanced across at Wilde, who was staring at him with parted lips and a gleam in his eye. ‘How much would you be prepared to suffer, Mr Wilde?’ he drawled. ‘For eternal youth?’Lord Ruthven inclined his head. ‘Or indeed, for any youth.’‘Youth,’ said Wilde, his expression suddenly solemn, ‘is the one tiling worth having. It is the wonder of wonders. The only true source of happiness.’ ‘You truly think so?’ Lord Ruthven laughed.‘You disagree, my Lord? But that is because you yourself are still beautiful. You will age, though. The pulse of your life will dim and grow sluggish. You will become lined, and loathsome, and sallow-cheeked. The light will fade from your dulling eyes. And then, my Lord, you will suffer terribly, remembering the passions and the delights that you once believed were your own by right. Youth, my Lord, youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’ Lord Ruthven stared into his wine. ‘The beauty you speak of, Mr Wilde, is an illusion.
